image from poetess' personal scrapbook
Mother's Christmas poinsettia apron
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the fabric remembers her hands~ floured fingerprints on crimson petals, the knot at her waist pulled tight as she turned from the oven’s glow. heat curls the edges, fraying the green leaves where gravy once splattered~ a stain, a story. Mother wore it like armor~ against time, against hunger, against the silence of an empty kitchen. Now it hangs, a ghost of cinnamon and cloves, still holding the shape of her laughter.
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